Fractures
by Calenheniel
Summary: [Hans x Elsa; 5 years post-film; 2 parts.] "No one was getting anywhere with her." She thought, five years later, that she could forget those words; but time doesn't heal all wounds, and love doesn't thaw every frozen heart.
1. Part I

**Author's Note:** I was inspired to do this after how much I enjoyed writing _Strangers, _which you might consider the "companion piece" to this two-parter. Be warned, though: this one is _much _darker, _much_ more tragic, longer in length, and … well … a tad more, let's say, "explicit" than its older sibling. (It also takes a _lot_ longer to get going, but I hope you stick around through the exposition to reach the gooey, smutty caramel deep inside.) Hope you enjoy.

**Acknowledgements: **Special thanks to my best friend, who again wrote the beautiful poem below for me as the intro to this story based only on the fever-dream outline of it which I concocted over the course of five minutes during a Skype conversation with her, and to her and another friend (jii-ro on Tumblr) for beta reading this insanity. I couldn't do it without you guys.

* * *

**.**

**.**

**.**

_The air will have to settle between us_

_I long to breathe what clean, untouched, unmingled _

_Unclouded air is left in this unchaste_

_Uncertain bed of yours. No longer try_

_To ravish me. No longer enthral me._

_Yours eyes must close. I cannot see that_

_Each pupil widens every time I speak._

_My body runs so hot and blushes red._

_So inflicted it is by fever caused_

_From your soft mosquito touch. So _stop!

_Let ice from my rejections cool my veins._

_Let resting heartbeats take over my love._

_So fiery love decomposes flesh and bone_

_From embraces born in septic passion._

**.**

**.**

**.**

* * *

**Part I**

She's looking at the man standing in front of her, and she's certain she seems attentive, and modest, and appealing all at once—even though she's not really there.

_This one's nice, Elsa_—_at least give him a _chance_._

She smiles, thinking he said something witty, probably, since he's laughing nervously—not that she actually knows, though, since she hasn't been listening at all.

_How many suitors have you had this year? Seven? _Eight?_ Well, maybe this one's lucky number nine._

She holds back a grey chuckle, and that's best, really, since he now looks serious again, and he's leaning on her father's old desk with one hand and gesturing about something with the other—but mostly, she only notices his first hand, because it's _leaning on her father's desk_, and she almost frowns.

_Besides, he's got it _made,_ if you know what I mean. And being allied with Madris wouldn't hurt._

He hasn't noticed her staring at his hand, because he proceeds to lean his full weight on that same desk, and then touches her father's globe, and comments with a slightly surprised look that it's out of date, and _would the queen like a new one?_

_Sure, he's a little ... _awkward,_ but come on, Elsa_—_I'm the queen, I mean, _princess_ of awkward, and he's not half as bad as _me.

She smiles politely back (even though she wishes that he would _just_ _get off the desk and stop touching things that aren't his)_ and tells him no, she doesn't, but thank you for the offer—and he reddens and finally distances himself from the desk.

_And just look at that portrait they sent of him—he's cute, isn't he? _Real_ cute. Way better than a lot of the others._

She looks at him then, and she's finally seeing him, too; and as he nervously prattles on about something else, scratching his head, she scrutinizes his black hair, his olive skin, his brown eyes, his dark red suit.

_I heard he really, _really_ likes you, too. A big, fat, _**crush.**

"Queen Elsa?"

Her eyes snap up to meet his, and she realises, somewhat embarrassedly, that she forgot to appear interested, lost in her own thoughts.

"I'm sorry. What were you saying?"

So he starts talking again, but she doesn't care anymore—actually, she hasn't cared since the beginning—but she pretends, and nods, and smiles, if only for her sister's sake.

_There's no such thing as "lucky number nine," Anna._

* * *

She watches as the ship carrying the deflated Prince Diego of Madris leaves the fjord from her bedroom window, and now that the show is over, her eyes are cold, impassive.

_So what was wrong with this one, Elsa? Oh, wait—there was _nothing_ wrong with him. You were probably just being way too picky, as usual._

She traces the window pane with a bare finger, and ice trails it as it moves, creating beautiful fractal patterns along the glass. The sight is comforting to her in its familiarity, and she exhales a chilly breath, her gaze relaxing a little.  
_  
Look, I—I didn't mean it that way. It's just ... well, you know what everyone's saying, don't you? I mean, you've rejected _so many _of them, now …_

She presses too hard against the glass in one spot, and it _cracks_ under her touch.

_You know it doesn't matter to _me_ if you are or not_—I_ could care less, actually_—_but to _them_ ... it just_—_it looks _odd, _Elsa._

The ice is spreading, and her heart is _thumping_ dully in her chest.

_I just want to see you _happy._ I haven't seen you that way in so long, now, and I—I'm just worried about you, that's all._

The _thumping_ pauses, and she draws the cold back inside of her—but the crack is still there in the window, and the wind from outside is seeping through it.

And she closes her eyes, because she doesn't want to see it.

* * *

_No one was getting anywhere with _her.

She's standing in front of her father's portrait when the words—_the_ _self-fulfilling prophecy_, she thinks with a grim smile—echo in her head again, just as they do on so many other nights, and days, and all the hours in between.

"_Did you see? The Prince is already leaving!"_

Her eyes move from the golden sceptre in his right hand to the orb in his left, and then to the gleaming crown atop his head.

"_What? So soon? But he only just arrived two days ago!"_

Then, her blue eyes meet his light green ones, staring straight ahead into the void, his expression unreadable.

"_Well, it seems she wasn't happy with _him, _either, for God only _knows _what reason."_

She wonders if that passive look is masking his _fear,_ the way she had to hide hers on her coronation day; but when she looks over his figure, so tall and confident and regal, she guesses that she's just projecting.

"_I know she's still young, but soon … time will be running out, and without children—"_

Still, he must have had _some _fears, she reasons, as she gazes at his visage—but the longer she stares, her eyes boring holes into his painted ones, the more she starts to think those fears were all related to _her._

"_But there's still the Princess Anna, remember; and she's looking well now, four months in, isn't she?"_

Her hands are gloved after the incident with the window earlier, but there's still ice crawling along the floor from where she's standing, and she pauses to catch her breath, because she _can't _let them find out that she can hear every word they're saying just outside the door.

"_Yes, but her husband is a _commoner, _Gustav, and, well … that won't look _proper _either, will it?"_

She manages to stop it right before it goes under the door—and she sighs in relief when it does, leaning on the table by the portrait as she shakes a little.

_Stand up, Elsa. You need to look _proper, _after all._

With some effort, she collects herself again, and places a hand over her breast, hoping that its cold touch will slow her heartbeat.

"_Better a commoner than a _virgin queen, _I say."_

Some mutters of agreement follow this, and then she can't hear anything anymore as the conversation moves out of earshot down the hall—

—except for the soft _tick, tick, tick _of the small clock on the table.

* * *

"Your Majesty? What news from the Southern Isles?"

She's smoothing out the letter in front of her, surrounded by her advisers in the council room, and the daylight filtering through the large windows makes the text upon it impossible to read—but that doesn't matter, since she already memorised its contents _hours _ago.

_Well, it seems she wasn't happy with _him, _either, for God only _knows _what reason_.

It's the same man, she realises, but her expression doesn't reveal that fact, her lips still pressed in a thin, prim line.

"King Magnus would like to reopen our trade lines."

Murmurs of surprise and consternation are uttered up and down the sides of the long table, advisers turning to one another, whispering across the way, glancing at her nervously.

Finally, one looks at her—Lady Mona—and the rest of their gazes follow.

"Perhaps … perhaps it is time, Queen Elsa. After all, it's been a while since the … _unfortunate_ incident involving his youngest brother, and this isn't the first request from the King."

Her eyes widen slightly at the comment, but after considering it for a moment, silent and grave, they harden, glinting like steel under the sun.

"Perhaps. But I would like to make a request of _him,_ in return, should we accept—if you all find it agreeable, that is."

The councillors nod perfunctorily at their queen, and she nearly snorts in derision.

_They're all so _proper _now, aren't they?_

"I would request that the Southern Isles return the traitor, Prince Hans, into Arendelle's custody, and that he be given a trial under _our _laws."

Silence, deep and thick and _heavy, _fills the room, full of light.

"Your Majesty … is the traitor not already being subjected to adequate punishment? What benefit is it to our kingdom to bring him back _here?"_

_I know she's still young, but soon … time will be running out, and without children—_

Her stare narrows, imperceptibly, remembering _her _voice from earlier, too.

"But therein lies the problem, Lady Cecilie: he is being _punished, _yes, but to my knowledge has not faced any sort of _trial._ And I do believe I've earned the right, at _least, _to prosecute him _properly _here—and to _ensure _that his punishment is equivalent to the crimes he has committed."

The dubious and confused looks on their faces are enough to tell her that whatever consent she wins from her Council won't be by them _agreeing _with her, per say—just _satisfying _her demands—but that's good enough for her, since she doesn't _really _care what they think about it one way or the other.

"I can understand your feelings, Queen Elsa, but … how would we inform the public? Surely this might, well, be _unpopular _with them?"

_Better a commoner than a _virgin queen, _I say._

She hides a morose smile, staring straight at the man who spoke with unfriendly eyes.

"On the contrary, Sir Gustav—I should think they'd be _more _than happy to see the traitor re-sentenced here."

_And none happier than _**me**.

She hears something akin to approving grumblings after this, but it doesn't please her; nothing will, she thinks, until she sees _his _face stuffed behind the iron door of the cell he once left her in, shackled and alone.

"Very well, Your Majesty. Now, concerning the _specifics _of reopening trade with the Isles, I think …"

Her hand relaxes against the surface of the table, and she closes her eyes briefly, her head _buzzing_—and she thinks of the clock in her father's study, _tick, tick, ticking _away.

A cloud passes over the sun, and when she opens her eyes again, the room is dark.

* * *

_As heir, Elsa was _preferable,_ of __course._

She hears his voice mocking her even as she lays in bed, staring at the maroon canopy above her, and she wonders if, perhaps, Anna's outburst a few hours earlier wasn't warranted.

_You did _**what?**

She had been as patient as possible with her sister at the time, her voice calm and smooth, not wanting to upset her—but nothing had worked, and those big, impossibly angry blue eyes had chased her down the hallway back to her room.

_Elsa, do you even _remember _what he did? To me? To _you?

Her brow tenses at the memory—_your sister is dead because of _**you**, a sword unsheathing, an ice sculpture in the shape of Anna—and her resolve wavers, slightly.

_Hardly seems like a fair deal—they get our trade, and we get _him _in return? You've _got_ to be _kidding _me._

Her advisers, at least, _had _to be diplomatic about their queen's demands; Anna, on the other hand, was under no such obligation.

_I think you've officially lost it, Elsa. There's just _no other _explanation._

She turns over on her side, staring at the door to her room, and she can see every detail of the floral pattern painted on it, even in the darkness of night.

_You know what? I don't need this right now. I'm _pregnant, _for God's sake—I can't _believe _you would do this!_

She grimaces, closes her eyes, and breathes, _slowly, _because she can feel ice on the sheets clutched within her grasp.

_I just don't _understand_ you. _

She pulls her hands to her chest to contain the burst of snow that they're threatening to release, and she shudders.

_No, I don't want to hear anymore, just—just leave me _alone_ for a while, okay? _

She can still see the outline of Anna's figure as she stalks off back to her own room, her shoulders hunched in ire, her hands balled into fists at her sides; and, just as she did then, she watches the scene replay in her mind in silence, not knowing what to say to make things right—or even if she _can _make things right—but this time, when she finally turns away, the guilt is gone from her features, and sombre determination sits in its place.

_You don't _have _to understand._

And suddenly, a wave of resentment towards her sister washes over her—resentment of her expectations, of her shocked face, of her _I think you've officially lost it, there's just _no other _explanation_—and it doesn't matter _what _Anna or anyone else thinks or believes, because they _don't know_, and they'll _never _know, what it's like to be—

—_the _preferable_ one.  
_

* * *

"Has the traitor arrived?"

She doesn't look up from her work as she asks the question, even though her heart is _thumping _violently in her chest, and she feels sick.

There's a long pause before Kai speaks, and when he does … he sounds unexpectedly _nervous._

"Yes, Your Majesty, but … well, he's not in the best shape, you see."

She remembers well the letter she had received from King Magnus a few weeks ago—how _overjoyed _he sounded at trade being reopened, how _surprised _he was at the Queen's request—and the description of the traitor's condition therein, which she had read aloud to her Council without shock, or foreboding, or even _pleasure._

_The traitor, formerly Prince Hans, has been held within a maximum security penal camp on Hetra Island for the past five years, and has, most assuredly, been doled the harsh punishment he so _richly _deserves—_

She puts down her quill, rises from her desk, and greets Kai's gaze.

"I will see him, and determine for myself what sort of medical attention—or whatever else—he might require."

_—but, of course, if Her Royal Majesty, Queen Elsa, wishes to put him on trial, then we will do _everything _in our power to accommodate her wishes._

He stares back at her reluctantly, but he doesn't _dare _challenge that cold, hard flame in her eyes. Instead, he simply bows, and gestures to the door.

"Of course, Your Majesty."

She sweeps past him without another word spoken between them, and a thin line of frost trails after her on the wooden floor below.

_We understand, after all, that Her Majesty's justice, _whatever_ it may be, is preferable to _ours_._

A ghost of a smile touches her lips, and the frost spreads.

* * *

The first time she sees him again, she's not sure if he's still breathing … or if she's too late, and there's nothing but a husk of a man left in his place.

—_and has, most _assuredly, _been doled the harsh punishment he so _richly _deserves—_

He's thin, so _thin, _and she can barely recognise him through the beard that covers his face, and the dirtiness of his clothes and body.

—_we will do _everything _in our power to accommodate her wishes._

There's a smell, too, she notices—a smell of the unwashed, the hungry, mixed with the saltiness of the sea that carried him here.

—_Her Majesty's justice, _whatever_ it may be, is preferable to _ours_._

Worst of all, though, is the _dead_ look in his eyes—the green eyes, she thinks, that she remembers _so well—_and she can't bring herself to enter the cell, to look into _those eyes, _because if she does, she might forget why she brought him back in the first place, and that she's supposed to _despise _him.

She turns away from the door, but she knows she can't show them how _disturbed _she is then—how _sickened_—and she conceals it, and looks at her guards with as much purposefulness as she can muster.

"Call the doctor, and if possible, have him washed, shaved, and fed—I won't have him stand for trial looking like _that."_

The guards are usually stone-faced, but she can see, even in _their _hardened expressions, something like perturbation—and that only makes her feel _worse_.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Her lip trembles, but only for a second; after it's passed, she raises her chin, refusing to give in, and her jaw locks.

"I don't want to hear _anything else_ about this until he's looking healthy again, and when he is—you're to come _directly_ to me with any news. Is that understood?"

The guards exchange a look—and she's sure they're thinking _it's going to be a _while_ until he looks "healthy" again—_but they bow stiffly, and answer in unison.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

She nods curtly to them in return, and excuses herself, walking past them.

But once she's out of sight, she has to lean against the stone wall of the prison, because she's _shaking_.

* * *

Over two months pass before she hears any news about the traitor—well, _official _news, that is.

_Unofficially, _of course, plenty has been said, and spat, and shouted about him in the meantime by the public, the courtiers, the councillors, _Anna—_and though, at first, it's all outrage and confusion, it quickly turns into something else, something _unexpected_—whispers of King Magnus's cruelty, of the Southern Isles's inhumanity, of _pity _for the former princeling.

_And all because the guards couldn't keep their mouths _shut_._

She should have expected as much, since they're _people, _and she knows how _people like to_ _talk_; but she couldn't help being annoyed when she first caught wind of the fact that they had been gossiping in the city taverns and markets about the haggard conditions of their prisoner, the _scars on his back, _the hollowness of his gaze.

_But it works in your favour, doesn't it, _Elsa?

There's her sister's scathing voice again, her tone bitter, her hand placed protectively over her belly.

_Now they all see you as some kind of … _admirable _person, because you "saved"_ _the_ _poor, _tortured_ Prince Hans._

She knows Anna's not completely without sympathy, herself—in fact, she's _sure _she saw a look of horror cross over the girl's freckled features when her handmaiden described his appearance to her, based on whatever hearsay she had gathered from the other castle servants—but she doesn't _trust _her older sister's intentions, and obviously never thought they were _good._

_It doesn't matter that he's not dangerous, or that he can't _hurt _us—he shouldn't _be _here in the _first _place._

Maybe Anna's right, she thinks, or maybe she's just being hormonal—but at least she's not _ignoring _her anymore like she was for the first week after his arrival, and she can accept her younger sister's anger, and brooding, and irritated _stomping _against the floor if it means she's not **invisible **to her anymore.

_Besides, how is he going to stand for trial when he can barely _stand?

She's not sure how true this is, since she hasn't actually _seen _him in so many weeks; but it's not as if the people of Arendelle are clamouring for a trial now, knowing what they know, and neither is the Council, since there are far more _pressing _matters than that of sentencing the ex-prince, still safely hidden away under lock and key.

_And now it doesn't even matter that we signed that agreement with the Southern Isles, does it? Because _no one _is buying _their _stuff._

She should probably care more than she does about this fact, especially since her advisers have been doing nothing but wringing their hands over the silent boycott of the Isles's goods by the public, too peace-loving and kind to buy anything made there once they realise what their money is _actually_ being used for—but she remembers that letter from King Magnus, those _awful _words, and she can't bring herself to feel anything other than a strange sense of _satisfaction _from the fact that she has gotten the better end of the deal.

_Relatively speaking, of course._

In truth, she wonders if having him there as her prisoner can really be considered the "better end of the deal"—Anna _certainly _wouldn't agree with that characterisation, anyway—but then, she remembers how _thrilled _she felt when she was able to _sadly decline _several requests from potential suitors over the past few months on account of having to address a _matter of national security_, and she shrugs off her doubt easily enough.

_I can have this _one _victory._

As time passes, however, it feels less like a _victory _and more like a _temporary relief measure_, since all the usual burdens of power are weighing down on her again: the settling of territorial disputes between rich courtiers and poor farmers alike, compensation battles, petitions to clean the streets of the autumn muck, arguments over tax collection …

_You're the _queen, _after all._

And though she reminds herself of this often—of _who _she is, the Queen of Arendelle, the _ruler _of her little realm—she knows that's not _what _she is.

Because **what **she is, in the end, is just—

_Preferable._

* * *

The day she hears the news—_officially—_it's the middle of November, cold and raining and _wet, _and she's sitting by her window, staring at the crack she left in it over two months ago.

"Your Majesty?"

Her gaze flickers over to the door, and she gestures, gently, for Kai to enter; when she sees his pursed, discomfited lips, however, her brow furrows in concern.

"Is something wrong, Kai?"

He fidgets under her stare, and lowers his eyes out of respect.

"It's—well, it's the _prisoner,_ Your Majesty. The guards—the guards say they must speak with you about him."

Her eyes widen in realisation, and then, remembering where she is—and _who_ she is with—her placid façade returns, and she nods, rising from her seat.

"I see. Thank you, Kai."

It's obviously an invitation for him to leave, quietly; but he raises his eyes to hers, and looks hesitant at her assured manner, clasping his hands worriedly in front of him.

"Queen Elsa, are you—would you like me to accompany you, ma'am?"

She's annoyed by the query, at first; then, seeing the older man's kind, distressed eyes, and remembering how they have watched over her for practically her _entire life, _her gaze softens, and she reaches out, resting her gloved hands atop his.

"I'll be _fine, _Kai—I promise. But thank you, anyway."

He finally sighs, relenting, and then bows a little—but when his stare meets hers again, he looks just as unhappy as before.

"Of course, Your Majesty."

When he departs, she feels her stomach drop; and when the door closes, and she is alone, a familiar voice jeers at her.

_Elsa—you can't _run _from this._

* * *

The second time she sees him, she can't believe that this could really be the same man—no, _husk _of a man, she reminds herself—whom she saw two months ago, sitting, shrivelled and lifeless, in the corner of his cell.

_We did like you asked, Your Majesty—and it took a little while, but not as long as the doctor said it would—and you can see for yourself that's he's _better _now, can't you?_

Indeed, she thinks, staring through the small, barred window into the cell with large, blue eyes, he looks "better" by every stretch of the imagination: he's dressed acceptably well in black trousers, a white shirt, and a blue cloak over top, and his body has filled out again enough, she realises, so that he can actually _fit _in these clothes; his skin has returned to its normal pallor, unbeaten by the sun for some weeks, and the smell is gone, too; his face looks smoother, with only a _hint _of a few days' stubble (though, she notes with some irritation, he's managed to maintain those _perfectly sculpted _sideburns); and when he realises that someone is watching him, and casually turns around, she can see that his eyes—

_His _eyes.

They're alive again, resuscitated, she presumes, by the return to a _normal _diet and clean water … but they're also _gleaming _with a feeling that she recognises all too well.

_The eyes of a _caged animal.

He looks that way to her then—_beastly, _somehow—and she has to keep herself from shivering, and from coating the whole prison in a layer of ice, because her hands, though gloved, are _itching _to dispel her uneasiness in the quickest way they know how.

"I will speak with him—_alone."_

The guard with the key set stares back at her, uncertainly; but it only takes one sharp, sudden glance from her for him to quickly comply, and he unlocks the heavy door.

When it shuts, and they're together in that cell, _alone, _her stomach stirs—but, unlike before, it's not a _heavy_ feeling, full of dread—and it takes more effort than usual to ignore the sensation, but she finally breathes in, and stands taller, and keeps her gaze level with his.

"And here I was starting to think that you'd _forgotten_ about me, _Your Majesty."_

Her lip curls a little at the remark, and he grins at that tiny movement.

"But I can't blame you for waiting so long to _grace _me with your presence—I wasn't anything _pretty _to look at before, was I?"

She bristles at the description, her shoulders tensing.

"That had _nothing _to do with it."

His brow rises curiously; then, he nods in false understanding, smirking.

"Oh, right, of _course—_how could I forget? There was no point in coming before I was _fit to stand trial, _correct?"

Her teeth grit together, and her eyes narrow at him.

"_Correct."_

He stares back with faux curiosity.

"So, when's my _trial,_ then, Your Majesty?"

She's scowling, now, and she can't _stand _that smug, _knowing _look on his freckled face—nor can she stand the fact that she is noticing his _freckles _at all.

"Two weeks from now."

His expression drops at that answer, because it sounds hard and certain; he doesn't need to know, she thinks darkly, that she's just pulled it out of _nowhere._

But after a short pause, that _infuriating _expression returns to his features, and he looks bored.

"And here I thought it might be _sooner, _seeing how much _better _I am under your _attentive _care, Queen Elsa."

Her heart races when she hears him say her name again, for the first time in _five years—_but she assumes it's racing out of irritation, because he _should _be addressing her only as "Your Majesty," as anything else is _far _too presumptuous on his part.

"Well, you thought _wrong."_

His eyes—those green, _predatory _eyes—study her curiously then, and she wants to shrink under his scrutiny, but she can't.

"Oh—I see."

The reply is too simple—too simple for _him, _anyway—and she frowns, her arms crossing unconsciously.

"What?"

He goes to sit back on the stone plank, and he's sitting _much _too comfortably on it, resting his head against his hands, stretched out behind his back—but then his gaze sharply snaps up to hers again, and it startles her with its intensity.

"You didn't come before, because … you were waiting until I looked like the _bogeyman_ in your nightmares again, weren't you?"

Her mouth goes dry at the question, and her lips part, ostensibly to answer, but—

"You were afraid, if you came before then, that you'd _forget_ why you hated me—that you might even start to feel _sorry _for me. Isn't that right, _Your Majesty?"_

Her eyes are wide, and still, and full of _confusion—_and he stares back at them with a sneer on his lips, his words _dripping _with derision.

"Don't worry—I'm still _grateful _for your _hospitality, _my Queen. It certainly beats the _camp,_ anyway."

That's his final _comment, _it seems, and it's also the proverbial straw that breaks the camel's back, because she's _furious _now, and she can feel the ice coursing, _rippling _through her veins.

And she smiles smugly when he yelps in surprise at finding his hands—once casually resting behind his head—now frozen in shackles of ice to the wall behind him.

He struggles against the restraints, for a minute; then, seeing her menacingly _pleased_ expression, he stops, and glares at her haughtily.

"I guess I'll just have to wait for these to _thaw, _then."

Her smile disappears for a moment, and a smirk begins to form at the corners of his mouth.

But then, it's back on her pink lips, and it's wider—and _colder_—than ever.

"Don't you remember, Hans? **My** ice doesn't _thaw _so easily."

* * *

_He refuses to eat or drink, Your Majesty, until _you _come to see him._

She's practically _storming _through the hallways en route to the prison, her mouth set in a hard, irritated line, and she ignores the burst of flurries that follows her every step—as well as the looks of surprise on the tired faces of the attendants she passes swiftly by, not expecting to see their queen wandering the castle so late at night.

_You were waiting until I looked like the _bogeyman_ in your nightmares again, weren't you?_

She'd been hoping, until then, that she could get through the rest of the day without having to see him again, or hear his _venomous_ tongue; but it's a futile hope, because she's been _seeing _him and _hearing _him all day anyway—at the council meeting, at tea with Gerda, and at dinner with an _exceptionally_ moody, petulant Anna—and even though the messenger had knocked on her door at such an _unseemly_ hour, she had been wide awake.

_You were afraid, if you came before then, that you'd _forget_ why you hated me._

She's been replaying it all in her mind, just as she has for the past _five years _with the other things he's said—but this time, they're somehow _worse, _because they're all things he actually said _to _her, not just disembodied words spoken _about _her to her sister in dark rooms with cold hearths.

… _you might even start to feel _sorry_ for me. Isn't that right, _Your Majesty?

Just remembering the way he had used that term so _sarcastically _sets her teeth on edge, and by the time she finally sweeps through the entrance and down the stairs of the prison, she realises that she's been _grinding _them.

"Your Majesty—"

She's in front of _his _door now, but she doesn't bother meeting the guardsman's gaze.

"Let me in, please."

He only pauses for a second this time before obeying, and when it's open just enough for her to enter, and she steps inside, blue eyes locked with green, the snow disappears, and so does the ice under her feet.

"Oh—did I wake you, Your Majesty?"

She realises, flustered, that he's _looking her over_—observing her dishevelled white hair, still loosely collected in a long braid down her back, her dark purple robe and the white nightgown peeking out from underneath it, the matching purple slippers on her feet—and she crosses her arms automatically, glowering more darkly than ever at him.

"_No, _but that's beside the point. What do you want, _Hans?"_

His brow rises at the question, and then he's staring at her expectantly.

"Well, to get _these _off, for a start."

His eyes flicker behind him, where his hands remain uncomfortably strained behind his head, encased in solid ice—but her expression only _hardens_ at the request, and her arms remain stiffly folded across her chest.

"Not until you say you're _sorry _for what you did."

He's surprised by the reply, at first; then, he seems _amused _by it.

"And what if I don't?"

Her lips turn down in a scowl.

"So you're _not _sorry, then?"

He frowns at the suggestion.

"I never said _that."_

Her voice is thin, and she's practically _hissing _at him.

"Then _what, _exactly, is the issue?"

He shrugs, nonchalant.

"I don't like being _forced _to confess to things that I would otherwise say _willingly, _Your Majesty. And besides—shouldn't I save it for my _trial?"_

She scoffs scornfully at his answer.

"I want to hear you say it _now_—and I won't thaw a single _shard _of that ice until you do."

His eyes look disbelievingly back at her, his brow raised again in _insufferable _scepticism, but there's a touch of a grin on his lips in his retort.

"Then I guess you'll never hear the words you're so _desperately _longing for, and I'll hang here until I die of thirst—and that wouldn't benefit _either _of us, now would it?"

Her nose wrinkles at the _jesting _tone of his voice, resenting it more and more with each passing minute.

"It would benefit _me _more than _you."_

His eyes narrow—those light, _emerald _eyes—and she can _feel _the heat of his stare on her skin.

"If that were true, Queen Elsa, then why bring me back in the first place? I was as good as _dead_ back on Hetra."

"I already told you, it's for you to stand _tria—_"

"And I don't _believe _you, Your Majesty."

Her lips snap shut, and she's silent, because she doesn't have a good response—or _any _response—to spit back at him.

That curious glint returns to his gaze as he regards her then, in her muted state, and she _hates _that her mouth isn't moving, or producing sounds, or _words, _to stop him from saying something she _knows _she'll be hearing inside of her head for days on end.

"Come on, Your Majesty—you must have had _some _reason other than to make me _formally apologise, _surely? I can't imagine that Anna was _clamouring _for me to come back, just for _that—"_

"Don't you _dare _say her name. You don't have the **right**."

She finds her voice again, to her own surprise—but it's only _after _he's started releasing his _poison, _and she feels her blood, unusually _hot, _pulsing, _throbbing _in her skull.

He rests his head back, looking away from her, and closes his eyes briefly.

"No, I suppose I don't."

She eases slightly then, arms gripping each other less tightly; but then, that _grin _is there again, and it's spreading with a _feline_ grace.

"But what if I said _Princess _Anna, Your Grace? Would that be more to your _likin—"_

"**Did you not hear me the **_**first **_**time?"**

She's standing directly in front of the stone plank he is confined to, her hands balled into furious fists at her sides, and her palms are _scalding._

"I said—don't you _ever, _**ever **say her name."

She's expecting him to be silent at this—to know his place, and _shut his mouth, _and be _humble, _for once—but instead, he just looks at her with slightly widened eyes, and then he smiles furtively, and lowers his voice to a sweet, _dulcet _tone.

"Oh, Queen Elsa … you're _blushing."_

The anger in her brow disappears, replaced with bemusement, and she doesn't comprehend the smirk she sees on his face.

"Don't tell me you're … _jealous, _are you?"

Her lips part, but she still doesn't understand what he's saying.

"What are you—don't be _ridicu—"_

"I'm not _totally_ unaware of the world outside this cell, Your Majesty."

He interrupts her sputtering, and the smirk is gone, but that knowing, _teasing _lilt is still there, taunting her.

"I hear the guards talk, sometimes: they say the Princess is pregnant, and married to a commoner—an _ice harvester, _no less."

She's _grinding _her teeth again, impatiently.

"What does that have to do with _anything, _Hans?"

He sighs at the question, giving her a slightly incredulous look.

"Isn't it obvious? She has everything you _don't_—a husband, a child on the way, and practically _zero _responsibilities, save for showing face at balls and public events—why, it's _natural _that you should feel jealous, in those circumstances."

Her heart slows in her chest, or at least she _thinks _it does, but she's not sure, since she can't hear anything anymore—let _alone _her own heartbeat.

_I'm … jealous? Of _Anna?

—_a husband, a child on the way, practically _zero _responsibilities—_

She sees Kristoff, and imagines the bright-eyed faces of her blonde and blue-eyed future nephews and nieces, but … _jealousy?_

_No—that can't be right. That's _not _right._

How can it be, she thinks, when she sees Anna playing with the children in the castle courtyard—her children, but also ones from the city—and there's a beautiful, happy smile on her face, and then she's dancing with them by the fountains, inside the castle, in the _ballroom—_

—and there she is in her green coronation dress, her hair pinned up in a pretty bun with ribbons laced throughout, and she's saying _you're beautifuller—__I __mean, not _fuller_, y__ou don't look _fuller,_ but more _beautiful_, _and then she's gliding gracefully across the floor,and she's gone for a while, but she comes back, and she's arm in arm with _him, _and they're asking _in unison _that they _would like your blessing of our marriage! _and _o__h, we can invite all _twelve_ of __your brothers to stay with us__, _and—

"No."

He's taken aback when she speaks again.

"What?"

Her gaze is cloudy—_blurred _—and her voice sounds far away.

"I said _no_. That's not it."

He seems to catch on that she's finally replying to what he said earlier; but, noticing her distant expression, his auburn brow quirks enquiringly.

"Oh? Then what is i—"

But he never finishes, because suddenly, her hand is pressed against his mouth, muffling his words, and his lips are sealed in a film of ice_._

_Don't tell me you're … _jealous, _are you?_

His light eyes are wide and bewildered and _disdainful _all at once as they regard her, one hand still gripping the ice around his mouth, and the other suddenly resting against his chest, on his _heart, _feeling him shiver beneath the cloak—from cold or from _fear,_ she doesn't know—and as the _thump, thump, _**thump **of his heart courses through that hand, the other on his mouth relaxes.

… _why, it's _natural_ that you should feel jealous, in those circumstances._

Then, the ice is gone, and his lips are cold and blue beneath it—but her fingers are lightly running over the outline of them, and they're quickly warming again under her touch.

_Oh, Queen Elsa … you're _blushing.

She snaps her hands away from him, and turns forcefully back to the door of the cell; then, she pauses, and glances at him one last time, a pink glow lighting her cheeks, and the icy shackles that bound his hands behind him disappear.

"I'll be waiting for that apology."

And then she's gone again, leaving him sitting there, on a stone slab, the moonlight _burning_ his skin.

* * *

"**Elsa."**

She's staring at her plate at breakfast when Anna says her name, and from the way she says it, she guesses that it's not the first time.

"Sorry, I was just … thinking."

Her sister frowns a little at the reply.

"I don't like it when you go _quiet_ like that, Elsa—especially since this is the _one _time of day when we actually get to catch up, you know?"

Their stares lock, for a moment, and she can see the resentment behind Anna's eyes—the lingering, _hurtful _disappointment that's been there for the past two months, and throughout their _entire lives—_and when she can't bear to see it anymore, she pinks and turns away, embarrassed.

"I know, and—I'm sorry, Anna. I didn't mean to, really."

Anna relents at this, sighing, and roughly cuts through her hardboiled egg with a fork.

"It's fine, Elsa. I just—well, ever since _he _came back, you … you've been acting strange. Well, _stranger _than usual."

She wants to take offence at the remark, but she knows there's some truth to it—and so the most she can muster is a slightly straighter back, and a defensive tone.

"_Nothing's _changed, Anna; and besides, I haven't even _seen _him since he arrived, since he's still so sick."

_She doesn't need to know._

She sips her tea, and Anna's forehead wrinkles disbelievingly.

"That doesn't mean you're not _thinking _about him, though. I know _I _have been, anyway."

It's hard to swallow the drink after that pointed comment, and even though she eventually does, it tastes far bitterer than usual going down her throat.

_She _can't _know._

She's suddenly transported to the cold confines of that cell, where the moonlight streams through the tall window and highlights the redness of his hair, the freckles on his cheeks, the _danger _in his eyes—and his lips are under her bare fingers again, and she can see them changing from icy blue to a fleshy pink, and she can _feel _his slow, shuddering breaths tickling her _unbearably _hot skin.

_I said _no. _That's _not _it, Hans._

"Elsa? Are you …"

_Oh? Then what is it, _Your Majest—

"… **blushing**?"

* * *

Something draws her back to him that night—the memory, perhaps, of beating hearts, of soft lips.

_You've been acting strange. Well, _stranger _than usual._

The guards let her in soundlessly, and her feet are just as silent as they glide into his cell, stepping into moonlight.

_That doesn't mean you're not _thinking _about him, though._

He's standing by that tall window looking out on the fjord, and she knows that _he _knows she's there from the way his shoulder shifts, ever-so-slightly, beneath the heavy cloak.

"I'm surprised you're here, since I _behaved _today, Your Majesty."

It's a glib remark, but that's not reflected in his voice, which carries an odd _tension _in it that it didn't have the day before—and she can guess why.

"Yes—I heard the same from the guards."

He doesn't snort, or scoff like she expects him to; instead, he still seems _stiff, _and he's still looking out the window.

"So why are you here, then?"

Somehow, it's _annoying _that he should ask such a direct question without even facing her, and she frowns unconsciously, taking a few steps closer towards him.

"_Look _at me, Hans."

It's an order, and even though she suspects that he might just ignore it—since he hasn't proven himself to be the most _exemplary _prisoner thus far—he complies, and his gaze is suddenly fixed on her with disconcerting intensity.

"I'm **looking**, Your Majesty."

She purses her lips at the remark.

"Yes, I can _see _that."

His feral eyes stare thinly at her.

"So—now what?"

She's observes him with the same, calculating way look that _he _usually wears towards _her_; and when he takes a few steps towards her, and they're only a foot apart, she feels herself release a breath she didn't realise she'd been holding.

_Yes—now what, _Hans?

Now that he's so close, and the light is shining on him, she can make out his features far better than before—the finely-sculpted, _royal _nose, the natural pinkness in his cheekbones, the fiery colour of his bangs—but she also notices _other_ things that she hasn't seen … or, perhaps, that she didn't _want _to see until then.

First is the white scar by his right temple, near his hairline; second are the faint lines in his forehead, revealing, as they do in her own, the passage of time since their first meeting; third, a patch of burnt skin by his left ear, covered, like the other scar, by his _auburn hai_—

She's so caught up in staring, in fact, that when she suddenly feels her back shoved up against the stone wall of the prison, and his bare, callused hand pressing on her throat, she's too shocked to shriek for the guards—because her eyes are _glued _to his noxious grin, and her mouth is twisting as he chokes her.

_But no one was getting anywhere with _her.

It takes more effort for her to _only _target the hand that's around her neck than it would have to just knock him back completely to the hard ground below—and indeed, when he winces in pain and his grip on her relaxes, allowing her to breathe again, she wonders why on _earth _she didn't simply **freeze** the bastard's heart, and let the guards take care of him afterwards.

As she sucks in the dank air of the cell, glaring _daggers _at him, the hand that froze his is still tightly wrapped around his wrist, and she maintains a temperature there that is somewhere between uncomfortable and frostbite.

"You 'behaved' today, did you?"

He looks like he's in pain—and _good, _she thinks, _since that's _exactly _how he _should_ look right now_—but he somehow still manages the faintest of smiles at this, looking from his pale, cold wrist to her spiteful eyes.

"I might have spoken too soon, _Your Majesty."_

She can't believe he has the _gall, _in this moment, to wear such an expression—and to make such a _frivolous _reply—when she **literally **has his life in her hands, and she is baffled, too, at why he would even _try _to come near her in the first place, being "acquainted" with her unique set of powers as he is.

And though she's furious, and puzzled, and _scared _all at the same time, his hand is still hanging by her neck, above her collar, in her icy grip.

_As heir, Elsa was _preferable, _of course._

She wants to ask him about it, then—about _all _of it—and that's an _absurd _desire, she chides herself, considering he just tried to _kill _her for the **second **time in five years.

But the longer she stares back into those cruel, _hollow _green irises, the more that desire grows—_enflames. _

_Why did you say those things about me?_

Her grip relaxes a little, and his skin starts to warm again.

How _could you say those things about me?_

He's still standing so close to her, his head hovering just above hers, and her fingers are only loosely wrapped around his wrist now—in fact, they're slowly tracing their way across the back of his hand, his knuckles, and she's hardly aware of it, but his fingertips are beginning to press into the flesh of her neck again.

_You didn't even _know _me, then._

It feels different than before, though, because his thumb is roughly _caressing _the dip between her throat and collar, and his eyes—those lovely, _vicious _emerald eyes—are darkened by something _indefinable_.

_And you don't know me _now, _either_.

There's a tremor running through her body, but she refuses to allow it to take hold of her—she can't let it, because if she does, then he'll _know, _and he'll _use _it against her.

_I'm not who you think I am—who _anyone _thinks I am._

And so she grasps his face in her hands, pulls it towards her, and kisses him.

_That _perfect girl _is gone.  
_


	2. Part II

**Author's Note: **Thank you all for the absolutely lovely feedback on this! I am really so touched by the comments, faves, and follows. I wanted to mention at the top here that if you enjoyed my story, you should also check out yumi michiyo's _Substitution _on Archive Of Our Own. It's just as dark, probably even more angsty, and has been a constant source of inspiration for me on this fic.

**Acknowledgements: **Thanks again to jii-ro on Tumblr and another anon friend for beta reading this insanity. You've been an _unbelievably_ big help to me. Also, check out some great fanarts for _Fractures _on Tumblr (links on my profile page)!

And now, without further ado: **the final part of _Fractures._**

* * *

** Part II**

She doesn't seem him again for a few days, after that—nearly a week—but, just like Anna said, it doesn't mean that she's not _thinking _about him.

Actually, she's been thinking about him far too _much, _whether it be in meetings, or at appointments with foreign officials, or while visiting with the public; and she's been thinking, in particular, of how _good _his lips felt against hers—how warm they had felt, how _hungrily _they had responded to her—at all the wrong times.

Seeing him again, she knows, will only confirm her fear that it had all actually _happened_—that it hadn't just been the _fever dreams_ of a depraved mind—and so she can't bring herself to go back there, to that cell, to step into the pool of light by the window, to see _his _face.

Still, she couldn't help but continue to inquire after his health from the guards who watch over him, and when they tell her he often takes to attempting conversations with them, or talks to the stone walls of his cell out of boredom, she tells them to give him something _useful _to do, since, as Gerda always says, _idle hands make for idle minds, Your Majesty._

And so he's set up, at first, with doing a few menial tasks inside of his cell during the daylight hours—scrubbing pans, peeling produce, making the silverware really _shine_—but she knows that won't hold him over for long, and that soon, he'll be asking _so when's my trial, Your Majesty? _again, and she'll have to find him something _else _to do to distract him from that question, since she hasn't even _begun _to find a proper answer for it.

_And I don't know if I will anytime _soon,_ either._

In the meantime, she's managed to retain the façade of normalcy (with the help of a few well-placed scarves to cover the marks on her neck from his hand), few people suspecting her true state of mind, and even _fewer _inquiring about the traitor held in the prison. They are satisfied, it seems, that their queen is as composed and calm as ever when she needs to be, and they do not ask her for anything else—and, well, as for the traitor, some have already _forgotten _about him entirely, ensconced as they are in new, petty political battles to win her favour at court.

Anna, by contrast, knows that _something _is playing on her mind, and guesses (correctly) that it has to do with _him; _but even _she _has stopped grilling her sister constantly about the matter, if only because her belly is growing bigger by the day and most of her time is now occupied with thoughts of what she and Kristoff should name the baby, what colour to paint its future room, the merits of plush bears versus dolls, and other such difficult questions.

_Life goes on, I guess._

That's what Kai always says, anyway, and she's starting to think that maybe, just _maybe _it can be true for her, too—that maybe she can just _get on with her life_ and not have to think about the way his hair felt, tangled in her fingers, or how his hand gripped her neck in that _coarse _way, or how he _flinched _as she cooled that same hand whenever it got _too _tight, or how his tongue darted along hers, or how he _grinned _at her when they finally pulled apart, and she was breathing, _hard_.

_So _that's _why you're here, huh?_

She had slapped a couple of ice shackles back onto his wrists for that little piece of insolence, chaining him to the wall just as he had done to _her; _and, if her magic is still working properly, she supposes that he has remained in those same chains for the past week, though she feels less guilty about this fact when she remembers that she made the cuffs' chains _exceptionally _long so that he had plenty of room to pace and do whatever else he so desired.

_That's a better deal than the one _I _got._

She frowns bitterly at the memory, and at the thought of his falsely plaintive expression when he entered that cell and pleaded with her to _bring back summer_—only to have been planning, all along, to _stage a little accident _for her once he'd married her sister.

_And _that _is the man you kissed._

She _should _despise herself, she thinks, for doing what she did—_Anna _would, probably, if she knew—but the most she can muster is a slight feeling of irritation at the situation, and nothing further, or _harsher, _than that.

_Because I _**wanted **_it.  
_

* * *

"Had a busy week at work, _Your Majesty?"_

She's been observing the new furniture placed in the cell to facilitate his daily work—a wooden table and chair, plus some heavier blankets that he requested—with absent interest before he speaks to her from the stone bed, his chains jangling faintly in the background.

"No busier than usual."

She won't entertain his curiosity about what she does up in the castle above him, and her daily life, or anything related to it; and why should she, she thinks, when he asks the questions in such a _smarmy _manner?

"Still arranging my _trial,_ I take it?"

Her nose twitches.

_And I don't _believe _you, Your Majesty._

"Yes."

There's a dull silence between them after this, and then she glances at the table.

"How are you finding your work, then?"

He shrugs, bored, and the chains shake as he rests his chin in his palm, a fresh layer of auburn stubble growing along his jawline.

"Well, it's _mind-numbing, _of course, but … at least I'm not getting _whipped _if I don't peel a potato in just the right way."

There's a hint of dark humour in his tone when he says this, and she remembers, then, the _marks _she saw on his face—the one by his temple, the burnt skin near his ear—but she also remembers the whispered rumours of the guards as they passed from citizen to citizen in the kingdom.

_They say he's got scars on his back, on his front—practically _everywhere.

It's not the first time she's thought about them, or been _troubled_ by them—and, indeed, in spite of everything he has done, she worries, from time to time, that keeping him caged down here is just insult added to _visible_ injury—but he always manages to keep her from feeling _too _guilty about it with his sharp tongue and unpleasant stares.

_Isn't it obvious? She has everything you _don't.

Frowning, she wonders at how he can still be so _mulish _towards her in spite of the circumstances, and the recent past, and now the chains on his wrists, too—and at how he can still stare at her so boldly even then, knowing that she could end his life in an instant.

_Don't worry—I'm still _grateful_ for your _hospitality_, my Queen._

His voice has taken on a low, _honeyed _quality in her memories—the same he had when he said _Oh, Your Majesty, you're _blushing—and it makes her gaze harden as she stares at him, an inexplicable _steeliness _taking over her.

"Let me see them."

His brow furrows in bemusement.

"See _what?"_

"The scars."

His eyes go cold at the order.

"Why?"

Her mouth tightens.

"_You_ don't get to ask _me _anything, Hans. Now **show** them to me."

He stares back at her, silent and stony, before he finally rises from his seat on the plank, draws close to her—only a foot away, again—and then stops, and holds his wrists in front of her.

"Take these off, first."

She glares at him, and is about to dismiss the request; but then, seeing the determination in his eyes, that set, harsh resolve, she acquiesces, and the ice evaporates into thin air.

His shackles gone, she's wary that he might try something like he did last time—but the feeling soon passes when she sees that he's maintaining his distance from her, and somehow, she has faith that he won't grab his new chair and try to smash her over the head with it.

_I don't like being _forced_ to confess to things that I would otherwise say _willingly_, Your Majesty._

She recalls him saying something like that, a week ago; but then he strips off his cloak, and his white linen shirt, not a word spoken in protest all the while, and she guesses that, perhaps, she might have tamed him, at least a _little _bit.

And even though his torso is bare—and some marks upon it are already visible under dim moonlight—her eyes never leave his.

"Show me the others."

His expression, like hers, doesn't change—even as he unhooks his belt from his waist and pulls down his trousers and undergarments, leaving them, like the others, pooled in a messy pile on the stone floor beneath his feet—but he can't keep from shivering in the cold, now that he's completely exposed to it.

She, too, can't _help_ it when her gaze finally breaks off from his, and sweeps over that body, every _inch _of it, as she walks around him, front to back, the train of her robe trailing after her.

But she pauses when she's behind him, and the light from the window is illuminating those long, pink scars on his back—much longer, and larger, than the ones on his front—and he shudders when her fingers gently run down the length of each one in turn, her touch feather-light on his skin.

_Come on, Your Majesty—you must have had _some_ reason for bringing me back here._

She circles back to his front, ignoring his _boiling_ stare, and her eyes flutter over his strong arms, his lean stomach, his chest covered in a light layer of hair—and there, in the centre of it, a mark that looks _fresher _than the others.

Fascinated by the discovery, she reaches her hand up to touch it, just as she had the ones on his back—but he grabs it before her fingers touch his skin, and her gaze finally lifts to meet his.

"How did you get that?"

He sneers at the question, and his grip tightens.

"It doesn't matter."

_Well … so much for _taming _him._

She scowls and sends a sudden chill through his hand, then presses her fingers _painfully _against that spot, watching, with some _satisfaction, _as he groans in discomfort.

Her eyes narrow ominously.

"It matters to _me."_

She draws back her hand after this pronouncement and walks to the table, gesturing to the chair beside it.

"Now sit, and tell me."

His reluctance is overruled, probably, by his survival instincts; and so he submits to the command, and, still bare as the day he was born, he sits in the chair, wincing a little at the cold as he does.

"There's not much to tell, Your Majesty. It's just—it was the last mark they gave me, before I set sail. Some sort of … _reminder, _I guess, of who—no, **what **I am."

Her eyes flicker briefly with sympathy—but she extinguishes the emotion before he can see it.

"Who gave it to you?"

He answers expressionlessly, his green eyes blank.

"Just one of the overseers at the camp. No one _important."_

When he doesn't continue after this, her brow rises questioningly.

"That's all?"

His gaze flashes back to greet hers, and it's just as sceptical.

"What—were you expecting _more _than that? Some great _tale, _perhaps, of 'How the Traitor Prince Got His Scars'?"

He scoffs at the notion, and leans back against the chair uncomfortably.

"No—there's nothing like that, I'm afraid. Sorry to _disappoint _you, Queen Elsa."

She frowns at how _dismissive _he seems about the whole ordeal—his imprisonment, his wounds both old and new, her _staring _at and _touching _his body as much as she pleases—mostly because it doesn't _fit _with how obstinate he is the rest of the time, and how easily he _mocks _her, even then, when she has all the power and he has _none_.

It occurs to her, as well, how odd it would look if someone saw them now, him sitting in his chair, arms crossed, looking somewhere between cold and disinterested, and her leaning on the edge of the table, observing him as if he were a specimen and not a full-grown, scarred, and very _naked_ man.

She's glad, then, that she had the sense to send the guards enough of a distance away while she "spoke" with him, since otherwise she's _certain _that they would be peeking in, and seeing—no, _gawping—_at the proceedings inside of the cell.

_I don't need them spreading any more _gossip.

Distracted by her wandering thoughts, she momentarily loses her grip on the table, and stumbles forward—but _he _stands and catches her forearms before she can fall over completely, and she breathes in sharply at the feeling of his hands on her again.

She blinks at him in surprise, only to find an _aggravatingly _smug look plastered to his features; and though she tries to will her skin to grow colder so that he will let her go and sit in the chair like before, her heart is beating too fast, and too _hotly, _for her magic to keep up.

_Elsa? Are you … _blushing?

His hands aren't grasping her forearms as savagely as they did her neck the week before, but he's still drawing in too close for comfort, and she can _feel _his hot breath on her face, and his eyes, dark with what she realises now is _desire, _boring holes into her own.

"I saw you staring at them—my _scars_—the other time, too, _Your Majesty."_

There's a seductive lilt in his tone when he says that—_Your Majesty_—and it makes her tremble, and her legs part slightly, allowing him to stand between them, his knees lightly brushing against hers.

"Were you feeling _sorry _for me, then? Did you … **pity **the poor, _maimed _Prince Hans?"

One of his hands brushes her hair back from her ear to speak against it, his lips tickling her cheek, and the other slides up beneath her nightgown, finding her _centre, _and presses against it.

She gasps when his fingers start to _rub _her there, and she grabs his shoulders suddenly, chilling them in her shock—but the chill is only enough to make him shudder for a moment, and when it passes, his pressure on her only _increases_, and he grasps at her breasts with the other hand, _roughly._

_As heir, Elsa was _preferable, _of course._

"_No."_

His fingers have slipped into her when she finally answers him, and she bites back a loud moan, her arms unconsciously curling around his neck and her face buried in the crook of it, breathing shakily against the _blistering _skin there.

"That's good."

He chuckles against her ear, nipping at the lobe, and he's started to coax her out of the robe—and the gown beneath it—but his _fingers _haven't relented all the while, and she's practically _whimpering_ by the time she's shrugged her gown far enough off one shoulder for him to squeeze her bare chest.

_I'm _looking, _Your Majesty._

But then he stops, and withdraws his hand from her—and as she stares at him, heady with lust and confusion,her cheeks heating at his equally red, but _smirking _face, she's sure, with growing fury, that he's just done all of this to _humiliate _her.

_No one was getting anywhere with _her.

She forcefully grips his hand, still gleaming with her _essence _upon it, and her eyes are luminous with desire—and _threat._

"I didn't say you could _stop."_

To her surprise, he _grins, _then—and it's a grin that's so wide, and so incredibly _handsome, _that it makes her swallow—and that same hand is suddenly gripping the waistband of her drawers, pinching the skin beneath it.

"And I never said I was _going _to, Your Majesty."

Her hold on him relaxes as he lifts her bottom slightly off the table, sliding the undergarment down until she can kick the rest off herself; and then her gown is being pushed up to her waist, and she _feels _the whole length of him _hard _against her, and suddenly she understands, and she _knows, _what is coming next.

And she _wants _it.

She draws him into a kiss as he enters her, and he pushes her down against the table, his body leaning over hers, her legs wrapped around his torso—but he's too rough at first, and too _fast, _so she sends a warning chill along his back, and he responds in kind, going slower, becoming _gentler._

_How many suitors have you had this year? Seven? _Eight?

It's not as painful as she thought it would be, from the stories she's heard from handmaidens' gossip and from the books she's read on the subject—in fact, it's _warm, _and it _fills _her_, _and she feels, somehow, completely in _control._

_Well, you know what everyone's saying, don't you? I mean, you've rejected _so many _of them, now …_

He's breathing _hard _into her shoulder and his fingers are _digging _into the flesh of her bottom, allowing him to go _deeper, _and her hands are only pressing him _further _into her, roaming his back, his shoulders, his _arms._

_I know she's still young, but soon … time will be running out, and without _children_—_

She sighs when he dips his head to kiss her breasts, and takes a nipple into his mouth, biting it teasingly as she pushes his head against her chest, her fingers entangling themselves in his hair.

_Elsa, do you even _remember _what he did? To me? To _you?

He's going faster now, and she lets him, because it's starting to feel even _better _than before—and it's starting to build towards something _more, _a swelling, _steaming _sensation that she can hardly comprehend.

_Did you _pity _the poor, _maimed _Prince Hans?_

His hand is suddenly _there _again, touching her in time with his thrusts, and she has to cover her mouth to keep from crying out when that low heat in her stomach is building up, _up, _**up** until she feels as if she's about to burst, her eyes closing with pleasure.

_Better a commoner than a _virgin que_—_

And then, he groans—and she quivers, gasping—and for a brief moment, there is nothing but _silence._

_Silence._

She opens her eyes, and they're wide, and _bright, _and she stares, for a moment, at _him, _resting atop her, catching his breath, his torso covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

Then, she looks up, and a look of awe passes over her features—and her heart _thumps_—because covering the entire room, from floor to ceiling, is a delicate, beautiful layer of frost.

And she smiles, because suddenly she understands, and she _knows, _that she is—

_Free.  
_

* * *

There are many more visits in the days, and _weeks, _that follow—and with each succeeding rendezvous by moonlight, she allows him more and more special privileges.

It starts out with some new clothes—a few more shirts, trousers, a thicker cloak to keep out the cold, a pair of boots that _isn't _worn down to the soles—and from there, he requests something softer to sleep upon and things _other _than work to keep him occupied, and he is given a worn, straw-filled mat to go atop the stone plank, a hard pillow, and some books from her own collection.

Then, he asks her for more _difficult _things: time outside of the cell; tasks to keep him busy that _aren't _menial; the chance to go _outdoors_.

And although at first she cannot allow any of these, he whispers sweet words in her ears, and caresses her breasts, and leaves trails of kisses along her thighs, and she feels _free_—and so she finds a way to accommodate his wishes, though it becomes increasingly more troublesome to do so.

_Your Majesty … you know I wouldn't _ever _question your orders normally, but—this is just so … _strange.

Gerda was shocked, and then terribly worried, when she asked her to find _something _for the prisoner to do during the day outside of his cell—something that wouldn't involve him being in contact with too many of the other attendants, of course, lest they _talk_—but the older woman had eventually relented, seeing the determination in her queen's eyes, _knowing_ she could not refuse the order.

It is in this way that the traitor finally leaves his cell, if only for a few hours during the day, and becomes the _phantom_ of the kitchens, the gardens, the unused rooms of the castle; and this likewise gives her the chance to meet him in places _other _than the prison for their trysts, which only _increase_ in number once he is finally given this little taste of independence.

(They particularly enjoy liaising in a guestroom on the second floor in the East Wing, where she remembers, vaguely, that the Duke of Weselton was meant to stay had his visit been as long as intended in Arendelle—and that fact had made the former prince grin even _wider_ than usual when he'd learned it, and he always takes her in an _especially _rough way there.)

Of course, keeping this quiet is no easy task—and in fact, he's nearly been found out on several occasions, mostly when he wanders too far out of his prescribed areas of the castle—but she is satisfied in knowing that at least _Anna _still thinks that he's in his cell, and she is perversely _grateful _for the obliviousness of (most of) her staff and Council, who haven't raised a single bell in alarm at the fate of the traitor Prince.

She thinks it odd, in some way, that he's seemingly been so easily _forgotten; _but then, she looks at the stacks and stacks of papers to be read and signed on her desk, and remembers all of her upcoming appointments and meetings, and suddenly, Kai's little phrase—_life goes on_—is as relevant as ever, and she is able to dismiss her concerns.

Yet she can't help but wonder, when she sees him, day or night, in empty rooms or hallways or _prison cells, _if he doesn't _resent _it somehow—if he actually _despises _living here just as much as he did the camp before it—because he never fails to ask, after every encounter, _So when's my trial, Your Majesty?, _and she never fails to answer—

_Next week._

But he knows as well as she does that no trial awaits him next week, or the week after, or the week after _that_, because he can see that he's nothing more than a _ghost, _now—_her _ghost—and every time they meet, there is no talk of their pasts, or their presents, or their _futures, _because there is only _now, _and frankly, she doesn't _care _what came before this, since that would mean the end of her fantasy, of her _freedom._

And though there is a well of guilt building in her at this knowledge—at the fact that she is _selfishly _keeping him for herself—she doesn't want it to end.

_I _**need **_this._

She doesn't know when she started feeling this way—like she _needed _these stolen moments with him in every hidden corner of the castle—but the feeling is only growing with time, with every whispered comment she overhears about her _frigidness, _and with every cutting remark that a now _very _pregnant Anna makes when she's in a foul mood (and that, unfortunately, is quite often these days).

She _needs _it, she realises, because it's the only time she can escape the shroud that hangs over her—the rage, the self-loathing, the _fear_—and it's the first time she's felt this way since she took off during her coronation and built a palace of ice, and _abandoned _her people to an icy doom, and nearly _killed _her only living family member.

And so she returns to him, time and time again, and she ignores the warnings issued by her rational mind—warnings that grow _fainter_ with each passing day—because the heart knows what it wants, what it _needs, _and she has gone too far down this road, she thinks, to turn back now, when her body _yearns _for his, and her powers, for once,are kept in check by the promise of seeing him, of touching him, of being _one _with him.

_I need _**him.  
**

* * *

It's an unseasonably warm February day when Anna's baby boy is born—and just as well_, _she thinks with a smile, since she can't imagine her little sister giving birth on a day that's anything less than _perfect._

Though they've had their differences in recent months, she is greeted warmly by the new mother when she arrives at her bedside, and while a pulse of anxiety runs through her when Anna hands her the newborn, she calms herself, thinking of light, airy _frost, _and she holds the boy gently in her arms as his parents look on approvingly.

She stays in the room with them for a while, talking quietly, humming along with her sister when she sings a lullaby from their childhoods; and she realises, with some surprise, that it's been _so long _since she was able to relax like this, and just feel _content._

Soon, however, she is called back to her duties, and though the mood around the castle is improved with the delivery of the princess's first child, and she herselfis feeling far cheerier than usual … when she enters the council room, and sits in her place at the head of the table, and looks out onto _their _faces, she is struck by a cold, _mean _memory.

_I know she's still young, but soon … time will be running out, and without _children_—_

And there, sitting a few chairs down on her left, is the very same Lady Cecilie who uttered those words, and a pacific, innocent smile is on her lips as she speaks.

"Congratulations, Your Majesty! It truly is a happy day for us all."

"Yes, what a _marvellous _occasion! It's a relief to hear that there were no complications, and the boy is healthy."

"We truly are so _thrilled _to hear the news, Queen Elsa—please, pass on our well wishes to the Princess and Sir Bjorgman."

Her smile is tight, _thin, _even, though she acts as civilly as possible.

"Of course. They'll be happy to receive them—thank you."

The councillors nod gratefully, and then talk amongst themselves for a while, exchanging exclamations of excitement for the young princess, her baby's safe delivery, and all the other _trite _niceties that can be said about such an event.

She wonders, then, while observing them, and absently listening to them, if there's anything she could do as queen that would be so _wonderful, _so _impressive _as producing an heir to the throne; and seeing how animatedly they converse, and knowing how _cruelly _they speak of her behind her back—the "Virgin Queen of Arendelle"—she somehow doubts that there is.

It makes her feel ill, and though she wants nothing more than to leave the room again so she doesn't have to see their _deceitful _faces, she forces herself to stay, and merely requests a glass of water to quell her unease.

_You're the Queen,_ _after all—virgin or _not.

Were she in better spirits, she supposes that she would look _smugly _at them for bestowing such a title upon her, as it now represents little more than a twisted sort of irony—especially when she thinks on how the sheets in the upstairs guestroom are likely still mussed from their last _meeting _three days before—but in that moment, her head aching, her eyes closed, she can't bother to claim even _this_ victory over them, small as it is.

She strangely _misses _him then, though she doesn't want to, and she's not even sure how she can miss someone like _him—_someone who is, in fact, little more than a _stranger _to her, for all she knows about who he is and _why _he did the things he did—but she does nonetheless, and the feeling is _painful, _and deep, and strikes her at her very core.

But she can't leave then—no, not _yet_—and with a silent sigh, her eyes open, and she resumes her role as—

_Your Majesty.  
_

* * *

When the meeting is finally adjourned some hours later, she can't leave to find him fast enough, dismissing her guards because, as she always tells them, she needs some time to "think," _alone_.

She's not sure where he's been sent to work today—the gardens, the kitchens, the empty halls—but she also doesn't want to ask Gerda, because the last time she did, the woman informed her, in an unmistakably _stern _tone, that he was washing dishes in the kitchen, and her _look _was enough to indicate that she had some inkling of what was going on.

_And there's no point in _confirming _it._

Normally, she might have made a game out of trying to find him, and sometimes he would sneak up on her and kiss her until she had to cover her mouth to keep her giggles from being heard; but now, when she is tired, and uneasy, and still feeling the _pressure _of all those eyes on her, judging her, silently asking her _so when are you going to have some children of your own, Your Majesty?, _she has no patience for such trivialities.

_I just want to _see _him._

She walks in a melancholy way down the empty hallway leading to the guestroom—only occasionally checking behind her for any signs of guards nearby—and when she reaches the door of it, she pauses, and slumps forward against it, her head resting wearily on the hard wood.

_Do you wanna build a snowman?_

She can hear the singsong voice of a five-year-old, the cautious one of a ten-year-old, and then the _disappointed _one of a fifteen-year-old Anna through the barrier, and she remembers, unwillingly, the years of isolation—the years of _fear—_and how close she had come to never drawing herself out of that dark hole she'd unwittingly dug.

_No one was getting anywhere with _her.

It's not clear to her, then, how far she's _actually _come since that time; after all, isn't she still _hiding, _in some way, from everyone? Hiding behind the title, _"Her Royal Majesty, Queen Elsa of Arendelle"?_ She wonders if that's any better than before—and if now, she doesn't simply have _other _secrets, **dark **secrets, that are just as _toxic _as the others were.

She eyes her gloves at this thought, and grimaces, her hands tightening into fists.

_Don't be the monster they fear you are!_

It's an odd thing to recall then, but she does, and her blue eyes widen slightly.

_He … _he _said that, didn't he?_

She remembers it all clearly—the ice palace, the guards, the arrows, her _rage_—but clearest of all is his pleading tone, the _understanding _in his green eyes as he wills her, with his words alone, to _stop._

_Your sister is dead … because of _you!

It doesn't make any sense, she thinks, no, not at _all_—and her confusion _crushes _her in that moment, because she's been trying not to think about it, or _feel _it, in all these months with him, through all his kisses, and bites, and caresses, and _words._

**"**_**Your Majesty."**_

She shudders visibly when she hears his voice in her ear, smooth and low and _cruel, _but she can't lift her head from the door, since she's afraid that if she sees him then, after he's already filled her thoughts, that she'll simply _feel _too much, and she won't be able to stop herself from freezing the world whole again.

"Oh—what's wrong, Queen Elsa? Has it been a _long _day?"

She feels him press up against her from behind, and his hands come up to languorously stroke her breasts over her dress, making her shake in _pain,_ and she's too caught up in it—in _everything—_to seethe like she should at him, to say _not outside, Hans, it's not _safe _here_.

"I can't say I blame you—given the news about the _baby. _You must be _exhausted, _now, hmm?"

It's an unspoken rule, since her early visits, that he's not allowed to mention Anna whenever they meet—let alone say her _name_—and though he doesn't then, she can _hear _it on his lips, in his voice, in the _air _around them.

But she doesn't say a word, because his hand is suddenly reaching up her skirt, under her silk drawers, and his fingers are touching her _there, _and she can't speak.

"My poor, tired, _lonely _little queen … no one _understands _you, do they?"

His words are _poison, _she thinks, her hands gripping the door for support as his fingers plunge deeper, _deeper _into her, and she can't _bear _the chuckle that echoes against her ear, the teeth that graze the lobe, the _tongue _that darts along the back of it.

"Well, don't worry, Your Majesty—_I _understand, even if they _never _will."

She knows he's sneering at her then, even if she can't see it—_won't _see it—and it fills her with an indescribable _shame _that he could say and do such things to her without so much as a _word _of protest in return, her body _slavishly _responding to his touches, long and bare and _powerful_, under the setting sun.

_I just don't _understand_ you. _

She chokes on a moan as she comes, muffling the sound with her wrist, and soon after he removes his hand from her, her skirts fall back down around her legs, which are _buckling_ under her.

He catches her just before she collapses to the ground, and draws her up again from behind, never facing her directly; and she's relieved, for some _inexplicable _reason, that he has spared her the humiliation of seeing the undoubtedly self-satisfied expression he's wearing then, as he looks down on the trembling, _piteous _queen that has caged him.

"I'd better be on my way—they'll be _expecting _me, after all."

She's still staring at the door, and at her feet, and _anywhere _except in his direction when he speaks again, though she can hear, faintly, the sound of him _cleaning _his fingers with his tongue, and drawling a _hmm _once he's finished.

"Until next time, _Your Majesty."  
_

* * *

But there's no "next time"—not for a couple weeks, at least, since she's still too _ashamed_ to see him again—and in the meantime she does anything she can to rid her mind of even the _thought _of him, whether it be burying herself in work, or reading her favourite books, or visiting Anna and Kristoff and the baby.

Even this latter means of distraction, however, eventually becomes another _burden _on her—an arrow of sorrow and dread and _regret _that wounds her with each succeeding visit—and so, as the days draw on, she goes to Anna's side less and less, making excuses, telling _lies, _because that's what she does _best._

_My poor, tired, _lonely_ little queen … no one _understands_ you, do they?_

There's something else, though, that's playing on her conscience, and keeping her from going to him—something she should tell him, _needs _to tell him—but she can't, and _won't, _because if she says it out loud, it will make it _real, _and she's been denying reality far too long, by this point, to cope with the consequences of acknowledging its existence.

_Well, don't worry, Your Majesty—_I_ understand, even if they _never_ will._

Nonetheless, it's impossible to hide from it, to ignore it, to _will _it away, since she's always been one to dwell on things; and so it comes to pass that she is at dinner with Anna when his _cooing _enters her mind again, and she frosts over the water in her glass with a glower.

It doesn't help that her younger sister has been staring at her, _intensely, _ever since they first sat down twenty minutes ago—and this makes her anxious.

"You're not drinking your wine, Elsa."

Her eyes flicker briefly over to the still-full glass beside her plate, and suddenly, the _smell _of it hits her—and she has to push down the nausea that rises in her throat, quickly looking away from it and toward her half-eaten food.

"I'm—I'm not in the mood for it, I suppose."

Anna's eyes narrow at her dubiously, and her lips purse.

"You _always _have wine at dinner."

The more Anna mentions it, the stronger the _stench _of the alcohol becomes, and she's trying, _desperately, _to block it out, to not _show _how unwell she feels.

"Honestly, I—I just don't want any tonight."

"You're **lying**."

A dull silence hangs around the table after this declaration; then, she gazes at her sister uncomprehendingly.

"What?"

Anna's wearing a horrible, _tempestuous _expression at the question, at the _bewilderment _in the queen's eyes.

"I heard from one of the girls—that they saw Hans _wandering _around the East Wing a couple weeks ago."

She stiffens in shock, but—just like before—she says _nothing._

"Well, Elsa? Is it true?"

Her mouth opens to speak; then, she shuts it again, her brow creasing helplessly.

"It _is, _isn't it? I knew, I just _knew _that there was something weird going on since you stopped visiting me and the baby, but … _this?"_

Her ire is palpable, but the queen is still silent, because she knows that even if she tells Anna that the prisoner hasn't been allowed out of his cell since her last _engagement _with him, her sister won't listen, and it will probably only make her face get _redder _than it already is.

"It was _one _thing to bring him back here, and put him in the prison, where he _belongs_ … but then you just _kept _him there, and there was no trial—and I didn't say anything, all this time, because I thought you were _handling _it, Elsa, I thought you _knew _what you were doing—but now I can see how _wrong _I was about you."

Each word drives the stake of Anna's disappointment, her _fury, _further and further into the queen's heart … and though she is still silent, somewhere, deep within her, a sensation of protest begins to rise, and it _curdles _her blood in her veins—but she stamps it down, because she has to, _for Anna's sake._

"I guess he told you some _sob story _about his family, or his childhood, and his twelve _nasty _older brothers; and so you took _pity_ on him, and let him out of his cell, because you're just too _kind-hearted _to see what he really is—is that it, _Elsa?"_

She presses her lips in a firm line, and it's becoming harder and _harder _to keep it down, to silence her anxiety, her _resentment, _but she has to, she has to, she _has to—_

"You don't get it, do you? That he's a _monster, _and that he can't _change _like you did—although, to be honest, after _this, _I'm not really sure if you've changed at _al—"_

**"**_**Enough!"**_

Her fork clatters noisily against the plate as she drops it, her hands in tight, white fists, and her icy eyes _enflamed._

"Say what you will about me, or my choices—how I've _lost it, _how I don't _get it,_ how I'm too _simple _to see the 'truth' about him, as you _put_ it—but don't pretend as if you **understand** me, as if you've _ever _understood me, or act so _surprised _about it all when you don't even know who_—_or _what_—I am."

Anna looks taken aback, at first; then, her eyes darken, and she glares.

"And _what _are you, Elsa?"

Her lip twitches, and she swallows, _thickly, _thinking—

_preferable_

But she says—

"The _Queen."  
_

* * *

She's not fully aware of how, or _when,_ she got to his cell later that night—it could have been right after her argument with Anna, or several _hours _later, but she's lost track of time, of space, of _everything—_

Except for his _eyes, _staring back at her in the darkness, _glowing._

He looks as though he wants to snap at her, to _berate _her for keeping him confined to his cell for the last two weeks—but then, when he sees her breathing shakily, her skin white as a sheet, and her gaze, desperate and lonely and _sad, _his expression shifts, and he softly draws her into his embrace, allowing her to shiver against him as they sit on his straw mattress.

"What's wrong, Your Majesty?"

She exhales tremulously at the question, gripping the lapels of his shirt, and buries her face in his warm chest.

"Don't call me that, please—not _now."_

He's stroking her hair in an unusually _soothing _way, and as he continues, he takes the pins out of it, and undoes the braid, and lets the white locks _free _to fall across her shoulders and back.

"Then what should I call you?"

There's a hint of _amusement _in his voice that doesn't escape her, but she chooses to overlook it, taking what little comfort there is to be drawn from his person.

"Just … just _Elsa, _today. Just for today."

His chest rumbles with a suppressed chuckle, and he runs a hand through her long hair before unclasping the cloak around her shoulders, giving him access to her bare shoulders.

"Very well—_Elsa."_

She suddenly wishes she hadn't allowed him to use it—her _first name_—because the way he does, in that mischievous, _sultry _tone, sends an awful _chill _down her spine … though, on second thought, that could have just been the result of his hand sweeping across her skin, followed by his lips, and _teeth, _which _graze_ the light freckles dotting her neckline.

It feels _good,_ she thinks, his mouth trailing along her collar, up her neck, to her jaw; and while one of his hands is undoing the lacing on the back of her dress, the other is drawing her legs up onto his lap, pushing her gown up her legs, and _sliding_ along the pale skin of her thighs.

_I thought you were _handling_ it, Elsa, I thought you _knew_ what you were doing—but now I can see how _wrong_ I was about you._

And just like that, the bile rises in her throat again, and she pushes away from him a little—but he merely draws her back against him, her front _flush _against his cloaked chest, and she breathes in sharply at their closeness.

"Something _wrong, _Elsa?"

He loosens the back of the dress enough to begin to slip it off her, but when he starts to, she resists, clutching at him _tightly_.

"Don't—please, _don't, _Hans."

He clucks at the plea, and tilts her chin up to look at him; and though her eyes are closed, a few tears finally escape them, slowly dribbling down her cheeks, and he gently, _patiently _wipes them away.

"There, there, now, my Queen—won't you tell me what the _matter_ is?"

She hears him, _feels _his breath against her ear—but she doesn't answer, and shakes her head, and the tears continue to fall from her closed eyes.

"Oh, Elsa_. _Always keeping everything _inside, _aren't you?"

He lays her back against the mattress, and though it's hard, it's still fairly padded on account of all the blankets, and the pillow, and all the other _luxuries _she's allowed him in so many months.

… _and so you took _pity_ on him, and let him out of his cell, because you're just too _kind-hearted_ to see what he really is._

He doesn't try to take off her gown again, though she wouldn't struggle against him anymore if he _did _try to; of course, that doesn't stop his hands from _roaming _her figure through the fabric, and _under_ it, and his lips from kissing away the tears that are trickling onto the bed below, though she feels him _smile_ against her skin as he does.

"Did you quarrel with your _sister, _perhaps?"

Her breath catches in her throat when she hears his belt unbuckling, and feels him, just the _tip _of him, brush against her entrance—and she wonders, in shock, when he had succeeded in removing her undergarments—but before she can even _begin _to understand what he's doing, or _how, _he's _penetrating _her, and her eyes cloud over, and she feels as if she's losing her _mind._

_You don't get it, do you? That he's a _monster,_ and that he can't _change_ like you did._

"Is that why you came tonight, Elsa? Because the princess _hurt your feelings?"_

He's driving into her _slowly, _pushing _deeply, _and it's **maddening **how easy it is for him, how he's _taking his time, _and she's trembling beneath him like a leaf, unable to speak, or think, or _breathe_.

"Perhaps you thought I could _heal _your wounds? Speak _sweet words _into your ear—make you _forget?"_

… _to be honest, after _this,_ I'm not sure if you've changed at _all.

He's going faster now, and _harder, _and his hands are firmly grasping her breasts—_too _firmly—and they feel so _sore, _and tender, that she wants to _scream._

"But how could I, Elsa? After all, I'm just a _prisoner—_your loyal, faithful _pet_—and how can such a **thing **even _dare_ to think that it could _heal _the Queen?"

_It was the last mark they gave me, before I set sail. Some sort of … _reminder,_ I guess, of who—no, _what _I am._

He's hot, so _hot _inside of her, and his hands have moved from her breasts to her sides, which he grips, _painfully—_but even with his heat, and his sweltering, _bitter _eyes on hers, her skin is getting colder, and her body is _numbing _under his.

"You must know, of course, that it _can't_—that it can't _help _you, or _heal _you, or **love **you—because it's only a _thing, _not a man, and a _thing _isn't capable of feeling _anything at_ _all."_

She breathes, finally—and when she does, the air turns _frigid, _and his terrible smile leaves his lips.

_And _what _are you, Elsa?_

With a strength she rarely uses, and hardly _knew _she still possessed, she shoves him off, and he falls _hard _on his back against the cold, stone floor next to the bed—and he nearly _barks _in surprise when she presses down on top of him, straddling his waist, but he's not _inside _of her anymore, no, he's not anywhere _near _being **that**, because her bare hands are around his neck, cutting off his _viperous _tongue, _suffocating _the life out of him.

"You can't see anything beyond your own, _pathetic _self-loathing, can you, _Hans?"_

She's glowering down at him with the full force of a _blizzard _behind her, the snow swirling around her small, white frame, her hair whipping wildly in the wind she's created—but she's not _smiling _like he was.

"You can't see it, and you can't even _begin _to understand it—what you've _done."_

With what little sense is left in those green eyes—eyes that are growing dimmer, _colder, _as her ice creeps into him—he stares back at her in confusion, and the look so _enrages _her that her grip _tightens, _and she thinks, in that moment, that she's never _hated_ anyone so much in her entire life as she does _him_.

_My poor, tired, _lonely_ little queen._

He starts _thrashing _under her when he sees, and _realises, _that she's not letting go—that, in fact, she's not going to let go until he's limp, and lifeless, and _frozen_—but his struggling only makes her more incensed, and more _desperate _than before, and her tears are falling as drops of hail, echoing dully against the stone beneath them.

"Don't you _see,_ Hans?"

_I'm—_

"Don't you _understand?"_

—_the _Queen, _but really, I'm just—_

"I haven't **bled **in _two months."_

_Preferable._

The snow hangs still in the air, and the only sound that fills the room is her heavy, _choking _sobs.

Soon, however, it's joined by others—_wheezing, _coughing, _hacking_—because her hands have left his throat, and she's dragged herself off of him, one hand pressed flat against the floor—

—and the other clutching her stomach.

_I'm not _kind-hearted, _Anna._

She turns her head towards him, _slowly, _but there are no tears left to shed, and her eyes are empty.

_I never took _pity _on him._

And he's staring back at her with the same, hollow gaze he had when he arrived, the imprints of her hands _seared _into his skin, branding him.

_I don't even _love _him._


End file.
